


surrender

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hook-Up, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: (Or: Three times Bruce and Clark didn’t talk, and one time they did.)When he thought about it later (and he thought about it all the time) Clark was pretty sure he was the first to kiss. It was a kiss to shut Bruce up, an easy way to end the argument. The kiss would be a warning, and Clark would pull back and say something clever and confident, something that would even make the Gotham Bat have second thoughts about this fight. That’s what was supposed to happen.Bruce wasn’t supposed to kiss him back.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 18
Kudos: 211





	surrender

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally 75% smut and 25% feelings. Originally I was going to write _more_ smut to round it off, but maybe that’s excessive? I dunno. Maybe there should be more smut.
> 
> The eponymous painting in Bruce’s office does in no way exist, but I’d like to think it’s Kyle Rayner’s work making an appearance, because the idea of Bruce having a painting by a future friend in his office is funny to me.

Without the gloves, Batman’s hands were uncalloused and manicured, so at odds with the rough kevlar of his gauntlets. It was a stupid thing to fixate on, but Clark couldn’t let it go. The soft fingers that were touching him – his jaw, his lips, his forehead, his neck – felt so much more human than he had ever let himself imagine. So much more _real_. Batman was touching him. _Bruce_ was touching him. 

Minutes earlier, they had been fighting. They had been arguing about – god, Clark couldn’t even remember – reckless endangerment or unnecessary risks or one of those rows that were as predictable as the sun rising in the east. Bruce had jabbed a finger at Clark’s chest, and he had stepped back and back and back, as though he knew that if Bruce touched him, neither of them would be able to step away. Clark could smell danger in the air, heavy and sweet. Still, he let himself get backed up against the wall, he let himself be maneuvered by Bruce’s angry fist.

Clark could see Bruce’s eyes behind the cowl’s lenses, pupils blown and dark. His snarl, cruel and beautiful. His stubble, close enough to burn on Clark’s skin. 

When he thought about it later (and he thought about it all the time) Clark was pretty sure he was the first to kiss. It was a kiss to shut Bruce up, an easy way to end the argument. The kiss would be a warning, and Clark would pull back and say something clever and confident, something that would even make the Gotham Bat have second thoughts about this fight. That’s what was supposed to happen.

Bruce wasn’t supposed to kiss him back.

But he did. Bruce answered the press of lips on lips with a growl, hungry and angry, biting hard on Clark’s lower lip. Bruce undid the clasps on the gauntlets in a rush, tearing at them to free his hands. Then – Bruce’s fingers in his hair, Bruce’s mouth on his, Bruce’s knee between Clark’s legs, pushing him up against the wall proper. The cowl’s beak dug into Clark’s skin and Clark ran his fingers along the cowl, trying to figure out how to take it off. Bruce growled into the kiss, warning Clark even as he leveraged his weight and pressed his thigh against Clark’s crotch.

‘Fuck, son.’ Bruce hummed the words in between kisses and Clark remembered the first time they’d met, when Bruce had looked him up and down and called him _son_ with a derisive sneer. Clark whimpered.

Bruce grabbed his face, fingers grasping his jaw, and deepened the kiss. His free hand reached down, tracing Clark’s side and down the curve of his hips, wrapping his fingers around the back of Clark’s thigh. Clark could feel their warmth through the suit. He felt their urgency. Bruce guided his leg and Clark followed, keeping it at the angle Bruce placed it in. Bruce hooked his ankle against Clark’s and grabbed him by the shoulders.

 _Oh. Oh god._ Clark wanted to say something, say _anything_ , but somehow he knew that if he said anything, Bruce would disentangle himself and leave. And right now, with Bruce’s suit brushing over Clark’s erection over and over and over, the idea of Bruce leaving was torture.

Clark curled his fists into the fabric of Bruce’s cape, pulling him closer. Slowly, slowly, Clark let go of gravity, drifting a few inches off the ground. Bruce responded to the motion with a low sound that was equal parts surprise and satisfaction. Clark drifted further, moving them so Bruce could move his leg without jamming it against the wall. He was aware, in the fractured abstract sense one is aware that one is dreaming, that they were in one of the Justice League headquarter’s long corridors and if anyone else in the League was still in the building, it was likely that they would walk in on them. Somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

It was rough, inelegant, messy. After maybe a minute Bruce gave up on kissing him, resting his forehead against Clark’s. Bruce shifted his hips, grinding into Clark with a focused furiosity, his mouth a thin line. Clark could taste blood from where he had bit Bruce’s lip too hard, iron and salt. Each time Bruce thrust, Clark could see stars behind his eyes, the sensation somehow far too much and just enough at once. If this was how Bruce felt against him fully dressed, jerking them both off with the friction of their suits, then– Clark tried to imagine Bruce’s impossibly soft fingers along his skin, over his chest, on his cock. Clever clever fingers, taking what they want. Bruce’s fingers were digging into the alien fabric of Clark’s suit, and Clark could feel each quarter-moon indentation Bruce was leaving for just as long as he was holding on. 

Time stretched and contracted, and reality was reduced to Bruce’s blown pupils behind the cowl, Bruce’s half-open bloodied mouth, Bruce’s heavy breath, Bruce’s thundering heart. When Bruce’s rhythm broke from its regular pattern to a chasing staccato, Clark moved his hands to Bruce’s hips, lifting him up, carrying him through. Clark could smell how close Bruce was, between the sweat and blood and arousal, and he _wanted._ Bruce came with a sharp breath and growled chorus of _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ , pressing his knee hard against Clark. Clark let his head fall back and Bruce bit his neck, _hard_ , and Clark came, his fingers surely leaving marks on Bruce’s hips beneath the suit.

Afterwards, Bruce rested his head against Clark’s shoulder, breathing heavily. Clark felt a kevlar bat ear dig into his neck. He heard Bruce’s hammering heart. He smelled them both, sweat and tension and ejaculate. He let go of Bruce’s hips and lowered them down, his hands under Bruce’s elbows until they were both on the ground again. 

Bruce stepped away. He didn’t look at Clark as he retrieved his gauntlets and put them back on. His mouth was kiss-bitten and red. Clark wanted to kiss him again.

‘We’re not talking about this,’ Bruce said when the gloves were back on, his tone one that would not be argued with.

It was a one-time mistake, then. A one-time mistake that Clark would think about forever.

* * *

Clark thought about it. He thought about it first thing in the morning and as the last thing before he turned his bed lamp out. He thought about it when he walked past the tabloids section at the supermarket, Bruce’s face smattered across the papers. He thought about it at the Justice League meetings. He thought about it when he punched yet another space octopus out of the atmosphere.

He thought about it when he caught Bruce studying him, tracing Clark’s body with his eyes, the welding helmet over his face hiding his stare from anyone else. But Clark could feel it, heavy and wanting. He knew that Bruce was thinking about it, too. But Bruce had made it clear it wouldn’t happen again.

Until it did.

Clark had been tapped to cover a Metropolis gala and no arguing made Perry change his mind. So, he reluctantly slipped into his tuxedo with its worn seams and his cheap bowtie, somehow askew even though it was a pre-tied.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that Bruce would come, but it still did. Clark saw him arrive, stumbling out of the Rolls-Royce with a pretty blonde on his arm and a smirk that could melt butter. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, even though he knew he was being far too obvious, Clark kept watching him. Bruce, flirting with a young woman far too young for him, a half-empty flute of champagne dangling between his fingers. Bruce, discussing canapes with a nervous-looking waiter. Bruce, talking to some city councilor, the hand in his pocket ruining the line of his perfectly cut tuxedo. Clark could almost see how his muscles stretched underneath the fine wool of his tux jacket as he shifted from one foot to the other, bringing the champagne flute to his lips with measured precision. The gala was black tie, but Bruce’s bowtie was a dark red, and the buttons of his dress shirt glinted gold.

‘Why are you staring at Bruce Wayne, Clark?’ Lois asked and poked him in the side.

‘I’m not staring. I was just hoping to get a quote on the new condo developments in the Narrows that Wayne Enterprises has been chasing. Locals are worried about gentrification.’

Clark took a sip of his sparkling wine. It was warm and had gone flat, the flavour acrid and cloying all at once.

‘A likely story, Kent. I wonder what he’s doing in Metropolis.’ Lois grabbed another glass of wine from a passing waiter and looked around the ballroom. ‘I’m going to try to catch Congressman Richards – remember you’re on the clock, babe.’

‘That’s your third champagne!’ Clark called after her. She waved dismissively back at him, already making a beeline for the politician.

Clark pottered around the gala, scrawling down quotes and trying to stay out of the way of the passing waiters. His suit felt oversized and unflattering, and though that was the point, it rubbed him the wrong way tonight. He kept looking at Bruce, who was a vision in black and white and red. Clark could see how others would look over the billionaire surreptitiously, flicking their eyes from Italian leather shoes to the coiffed hair, an undisguised hunger on their faces. A hot flash of jealousy burned in his stomach.

Another hour had passed and Clark’s notebook was full of soundbites, none of them piecing together into a narrative. He turned and found himself face to face with Bruce. In the past hour, he had lost his bowtie and locks of hair were falling into his face. His eyes were dark, whether by alcohol or desire. Clark couldn’t understand how a man could both look debauched and put-together at the same time.

‘Mr Kent. What a delight seeing you here.’ Bruce held out a hand and Clark shook it. His skin was soft and warm.

‘I wanted to ask you about the Narrows condominium project, Mr Wayne.’ Clark said, his voice not quite as neutral as he’d like.

Bruce skated his gaze over Clark, sensual and horrible, and the leonine smile he offered didn’t quite reach his eyes. He held Clark’s hand in a vice-like grip.

‘I think I can spare a few minutes for my favourite newspaper, Mr Kent. Come, let’s see if we can find a place for a quiet interview.’ 

_Oh_ , Clark thought. _Oh, this is happening again._

Clark felt the ghost of Bruce’s hand when he pulled away. He followed Bruce who led them through the ballroom and into the corridors leading to the west wing of the museum. Two right-hand turns later, Bruce opened a door and held it open, nodding at Clark. Clark stepped inside the room, which was more a glorified closet than anything else. Stacks of boxes lined the wall and there was barely enough room for both of them to stand without touching. Bruce closed the door behind him and turned on the light. Clark could feel Bruce’s breath against his skin.

Bruce’s eyes flicked down, and a self-satisfied sneer spread across his face. He pressed his palm against Clark’s half-hardness, the gesture just on the right side of rough.

‘Baby, you’re hard for me and I haven’t even touched you.’

Clark bit back a groan and moved closer, even though he knew it was a stupid idea, even if he knew that people were passing by the closet every minute. He could hear the _click_ of their heels, the rustling of their clothes. He could hear Bruce’s heart, loud in his ears. Bruce moved Clark so he was pressed up against the door, keeping it shut against anyone who might consider opening it.

They were only going to do this once. Just once. They would do this once and never talk about it. That’s what Bruce had wanted.

‘I can give you a hand, sugar, if that would be helpful.’

Bruce was already on his knees, hands spread over Clark’s hips, his smile devastating and beautiful. He raised an eyebrow when Clark continued to say nothing.

It felt like a lifetime passed before Clark was able to nod his head. He should be able to say _something_ , remind Bruce that he only wanted to do this once, that one mistake was one thing. Two mistakes were a pattern.

‘Take off your jacket. Suspenders.’

Clark pulled off the jacket and threw it on the floor. He shrugged the suspenders off his shoulders and let them fall. All the while, Bruce looked at him through heavy eyelids.

Bruce took his time undoing Clark’s slacks, pausing after every button to brush over his cock through the wool with his palm or nose or lips, looking up at Clark with a grin that should be illegal. When Bruce finally pulled down his slacks, Clark wondered if this was something Bruce did often. Sneaking away from a stuffy gala for a quick fuck was more tame than some of the rumours – unsubstantiated or not – that the Gotham rags had printed about their prince of Gotham. It shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t any of his business what Bruce Wayne did in his spare time. Clark didn’t have any kind of claim on Bruce, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Bruce would answer him if he asked.

Clark ground his teeth and pressed his palms against the door when Bruce started, planting open-mouthed kisses down his length, running his tongue back to the tip of his cock. Bruce splayed his hand on Clark’s stomach, pushing shirt and cumberbund up and out of the way, and swallowed him down. 

Bruce worked slowly, licking and lapping and ever pushing deeper, pulling back. All the while, he looked up at Clark, his cheeks hollowed and his eyes dark. The submissiveness of Bruce’s kneeling for Clark was at odds with his determined gaze, his demanding mouth, his deliberate noise. Clark felt each moan and mewl travel through his body, buzzing in the back of his skull. The sounds were teasing and needy, performative and demanding. Bruce’s mouth was warm and the back of his throat inviting and soft. Bruce’s eyes were cold and his gaze was hard. Even here, he was keeping his distance.

‘Bruce…’ Clark brushed the backs of his fingers over Bruce’s cheek, tracing the curve of his ear with a finger.

‘Shut up.’ The words were nothing but a murmur, a breath against sensitive skin. ‘Do you want this?’

‘Yes. God, Bruce, you’re so–’ Clark didn’t know what word he was looking for. Good? Beautiful? Perfect?

‘I said, shut _up_.’

Bruce had his fingers wrapped around Clark, resting the tip of his cock on his lower lip, tongue flicking over the slit. Clark bit back a reply and let his head fall back against the door. Bruce was good at this; Bruce was _too good_ at this. The hand wrapped around Clark’s cock moved in tandem with Bruce’s head, dragging Clark closer to orgasm. Bruce’s eyelashes were so long, half-hiding his sparkling eyes. _I dare you_ , the look on Bruce’s face said. _I dare you to come._ Clark came with a silent cry, and it was all he could do to stay silent, to not stagger down onto the floor. Bruce was on his feet at once, one hand wrapped around Clark’s neck to pull him into a kiss, his mouth tasting sweet and familiar and foreign. The other hand tucked Clark back in his underwear (God, he was still so sensitive; Bruce’s fingertips burning on his cock) and buttoning his fly. 

‘My turn. Take off your glasses.’

Bruce shed his jacket and suspenders in one movement and began to unbutton his fly one-handed, the hand in Clark’s hair moving Clark so they traded places. Bruce leaned against the door, shoved down his slacks, and looked at Clark expectantly. 

Clark kneeled for him, flicking his eyes from Bruce’s face to his cock and back. He placed his glasses on his discarded jacket. Bruce grabbed Clark by the hair and angled his face up. Bruce’s other hand curled under Clark’s jaw, forefinger and thumb pressing into his cheeks, against his molars, forcing his mouth open wide. (Clark let himself pretend that he could bruise, just for a second. He imagined Bruce’s fingerprints bruising blue and purple, marking Clark like a brand of property.) Clark closed his eyes and Bruce rested his cock on Clark’s lips, the precum trailing a line of salty sweetness on his tongue. He curved his tongue and lapped over the glans – once, twice. He stayed there, mouth open. Waiting for Bruce. Offering himself.

Bruce’s fingers twisted in his hair, setting the pace, determining the depth. Deep and hard and fast. Clark opened his eyes to glance up. Bruce’s eyes fluttered close. He fucked Clark’s throat with a half-smile on his face, only letting the smallest sounds slip out. Clark chased those sounds, flattening his tongue and working his throat, trying to catch Bruce out in the gruelling pace he’d decided on. Clark found himself thinking (between the thoughts of _don’t breathe_ and _cover your teeth_ and _fuckfuckjesusfuck_ ) that he shouldn’t like this as much as he did, the callous way Bruce shoved himself down his throat, like he didn’t care if he hurt him, like he was only thinking about himself. He felt ashamed of this later, but in the moment that thought only made it better, hotter, that Bruce could use him like he could never use another human. That Clark could give him something no one else could. Bruce came with a low growl and a cut-off curse word, his fingers in Clark’s hair, his cock deep in Clark’s throat. Clark could barely taste it.

Clark felt Bruce’s fingers shake when he let him go. He allowed himself several seconds on the floor before he got up again, brushing the dust off his knees. Bruce looked him over, biting his already-reddened lower lip, his eyes gleaming. He pulled out a comb and worked through his hair, the teeth of the comb dragging over Clark’s scalp.

‘Kitten, you look a fucking mess.’ Bruce’s voice was hoarse, like he was the one with an abused throat. ‘Wash your face on your way back. Your once-and-future girlfriend will be wondering where you are.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means what I said.’ Bruce said as he pulled his suspenders on and grabbed his jacket from the floor. ‘Have a pleasant evening, Mr Kent.’

Bruce opened the door to the closet, leaving Clark without a second look.

* * *

Clark had had a feeling something would happen today. He had woken up remembering that he was going to Gotham today. He was interviewing Bruce. Somehow, he _knew_. When he got dressed, he found himself thinking about what looked good on him, about what Bruce might think looked good on him. He paired his jeans and dress shirt with a red tie and his worn blue corduroy jacket. As he styled his hair, he could imagine Bruce looking him up and down, saying _who’re you trying to impress, farmboy?_ with a smile that was both scornful and appreciating. 

Bruce’s secretary (or maybe she was an executive assistant, Clark could never keep all the euphemistic job titles straight in his head) took his jacket and said that Mr Wayne was happy to see him at once.

He knew as soon as he walked into Bruce’s glass-covered office that he had been right. When he stepped inside, Bruce stood up and looked Clark up and down, assessing him.

‘I like the tie.’ Bruce said.

‘Thank you. It was a gift.’ At least, Clark thought it was a gift. He had found it in his drawers after he came back from life, and Ma had insisted she had never seen it before. Bruce’s easy smirk seemed to confirm what he had been suspecting for a long time. ‘Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr Wayne.’

‘Oh, don’t mention it. I can think of worse ways to spend my time.’

Bruce rapped his fingers on the mahogany desk. It sounded like a call to action. Clark walked across the room, keeping his eyes on Bruce. When they were only a couple of feet apart, close enough that Clark could count each of Bruce’s eyelashes, Bruce nodded his head to the right.

‘What do you think of that picture?’

Clark turned and looked at the painting, his left hand tapping the edge of the desk. It was abstract, splashes of red and black and yellow. It wasn’t pretty. It made Clark think of Batman. 

‘It’s a little intense. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be of. But, I’m not an art critic so– _oh_.’

While Clark had looked at the painting, Bruce had moved, positioning himself behind Clark, a hand placed on either side of Clark, boxing him in.

‘Oh indeed,’ Bruce agreed, pressing closer. Clark placed his hand on the desk, his little fingers brushing over Bruce’s fingers. ‘It’s by an LA artist. It’s called _Surrender_.’

‘I see.’

Clark’s mouth felt dry. He could feel his heart in his throat. Bruce was _so very close_.

‘Would you rather we don’t?’ Bruce’s breath tickled Clark’s ear and neck, their bodies flush against the desk. Clark could feel Bruce’s burgeoning erection press against his ass, separated by too many layers of clothes.

‘No, I want it.’

Bruce reached around and undid the belt, the buttons on Clark’s jeans, and tugged them down to his knees. The seconds where Bruce wasn’t pressed against him lasted forever. The office air was cold on his exposed skin. Bruce ground his hips, the linen soft against his skin, the belt buckle cold.

‘Are you going to fuck me?’

They hadn’t. (Correction: they hadn’t _yet_.)

Clark glanced over his shoulder. Bruce seemed to consider the question, the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He ran his far-too-soft fingertips over Clark’s cheeks, starting at his hips and moving inward. Clark bit his lip and forced himself not to buck into the touch but he couldn’t prevent the hiss when Bruce pressed the pad of his thumb against his hole. Bruce grinned at the sound, his cheekbones flushed with pink and his mouth wet.

‘No,’ Bruce said at last, removing his hand and giving Clark’s ass a light slap. ‘Not today.’

‘Have you thought about it?’

Clark held his breath as Bruce moved closer again, kissing Clark’s neck, scraping his teeth over his skin.

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Clark realised he was whispering.

‘You want me to tell you how I’d fuck your pretty ass?’ Bruce spoke in the same low whisper, his stubble brushing the shell of Clark’s ear. Clark liked the scratch of stubble and he found himself hoping that Bruce had eschewed his morning shave for Clark’s sake. ‘God, everyone thinks you’re so good. What would they say if they saw you like this? If they knew how hard you get when I use you?’

‘You’re not using me.’

‘Yes, I am. You’re just getting off on it.’

As if to prove his point, Bruce brushed his thumb over the tip of Clark’s cock, smearing the precum already beading down his length. Then he pulled his hand away and reached for the bottle of hand cream on the desk, the motion pressing him more firmly against Clark. Clark could feel him through the layers of clothes, hard and hot. One-handed, Bruce pumped lotion into his cupped palm. The smell of lavender filled the room – floral, soft, and expensive. Clark licked his lips and wondered what Bruce was going to do with it.

‘Do you want me to tell you?’

 _I want you to show me_. The words died on Clark’s tongue, because no matter how expensive that cream was, it was nowhere near slick enough, and he wanted Bruce to tell him about it, his voice like cut glass and smoky whisky.

‘Yes.’ 

Bruce breathed again, a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Clark felt Bruce move back, and then – the leather of his belt brushing against Clark’s skin as he undid it, the soft sound of a zipper being undone, of Bruce’s slacks pushed down.

‘I’d take it slow,’ Bruce said and drew his hand back, pressing his chest against Clark’s back. Clark could smell the lavender. ‘Take your clothes off. Suck you off. After you come, I’ll kiss you so you can taste your cum. I’d keep it for you and you would lick my mouth clean. Hungry for everything I give you. You’d be so pretty with your own cum on your lips.’ Clark could hear Bruce’s hand on himself, lazy fingers spreading lotion on his cock. ‘Then I’d take you to the bedroom. Get you on the bed. Spread your legs for me. Touch you everywhere. Mark you. Bite those perfect thighs. So thick and pretty.’

Bruce ran both of his hands up and down Clark’s thighs, one hand dry and the other still just slightly moist from the hand cream. Bruce’s cock twitched against Clark’s ass. Then, with one hand curled on Clark’s shoulder, Bruce took himself in hand. Clark felt Bruce nudge against his inner thighs.

‘Spread those legs for me, baby.’

Bruce murmured the words, the order interrupting the story he was telling. Clark obeyed. Bruce felt hot and hard. He moved slowly, using the glide of the lotion to jerk himself off between Clark’s thighs. Bruce kept a hand on his shoulder and wrapped the other around Clark, tentatively running his fingers up and down his cock. 

‘Where was I? Ah, yes. You’d be begging for me now. I’ve got you on the bed and you’re begging like a slut. _Fuck me, please, Bruce, I need you to fuck me._ ’ Clark could almost taste those words in his own mouth, pleading for Bruce. ‘I wouldn’t touch you until you’ve begged enough. So pretty when you beg. Such a pretty boy. So needy. One finger, first. Slowly. Too much lube so that finger’s not enough for you. You want me to fill you up; you need me to fill you up. You’re begging for my cock, begging for me to use you. God, you’d be hard already again, leaking and dripping and wanting to come. But you don’t touch yourself because I don’t want you to. I want you to be good. So you want to be good. Good for me.’

God, Clark wanted to be good. His fingertips were white from how hard he pressed them into the desk, the mahogany indented with his prints. Bruce’s palm felt too good, his fingers perfect and soft and so good on Clark. Bruce’s cock nudged against Clark’s sac with every thrust, the sensation sudden and unexpected every time, shooting sparks of pleasure up his spine. Clark felt dizzy from keeping himself in check. The room smelled like lavender.

‘When you’ve earned it, I’ll add another finger. Fuck you slowly, like I’ve bought you for the night, like I want to get my money’s worth. Like you belong to me. Three fingers. Four. Slowly, slowly l stretch you open. Get you ready for my cock.’

Bruce sounded breathless now, the words spilling from his mouth along with gasps and sighs. He changed the rhythm, thrusting his hips with abandon, dragging lavender and precum along Clark’s thighs and ass and perineum, his grip on Clark’s cock hard and unyielding.

‘Squeeze those thighs for me, baby.’ Bruce moaned against Clark’s neck when he squeezed his thighs, tight around Bruce’s cock. The words fell from Bruce’s mouth like an avalanche, unstoppable and lethal. ‘I’d flip you over. You’ll cry when I finally fuck you, when I force my cock inside you. Make a mess of the pillows, sobbing and drooling and begging. So good, and you want to come with cock inside you. But I won’t let you, not yet, not until I’m done with you. You come when I tell you to. I’d fuck you like I own you, like I could break you. Like I want to break you. Fuck you until you can’t remember your name, who you are, until all you know is how much you love my cock, how much you want me to use you, how badly you want me to fill you with cum.’

Clark squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears on his eyelashes. He needed to come but he couldn’t, not yet, not until Bruce let him, not until Bruce wanted him to.

‘When I’ve decided it’s enough, when I’ve decided you have earned it, I’ll say to you: come for me.’ Bruce’s voice was raw and dark, his thrusts growing uncoordinated and rough. Clark could feel him lick his lips, his tongue touching his earlobe, and Bruce said again: ‘Come for me.’

Clark came with a whimper, the orgasm like a firework of sensations. He felt Bruce come, the evidence dripping down his thighs. He let his head fall and breathed until he felt more like himself again. Bruce stepped away and Clark heard him get dressed again. Bruce cleared his throat before he spoke.

‘There are tissues on the desk.’

Bruce sounded _fucked_ and Clark felt a new rush of arousal, a need to hear him like that again and again. Clark didn’t dare to speak, grabbing the tissues and wiping his thighs and the side of the desk. He did up his jeans before he turned around. Bruce was sitting in an armchair, one leg folded over the other. He had the carefully neutral face of Bruce Wayne, but his eyes were too bright and too dark all at once and the colour in his face was still noticeable. More than that was his heart: a quick _ba-dum ba-dum_ that Clark would know anywhere.

Bruce Wayne smiled a stranger’s smile at Clark.

‘So the _Daily Planet_ wants to hear about the Narrows condominium project? Sit down, Mr Kent, happy to talk to you.’

Clark marvelled at how his voice had changed, from raw and needing to bland and charming. His tone said: business as usual. The room smelled of sex and lavender. Clark took a seat in the armchair opposite him and tried to put his growing unease aside.

* * *

And then – nothing. Bruce didn’t text. He didn’t call. He left Gotham for two weeks, and Clark only found out because Diana mentioned it. Once he was back, there were gossip rag reports of Bruce Wayne taking afternoon tea with a well-loved social media personality. A few days later, pictures of him, his arm draped around the pretty blonde. And he didn’t talk to Clark.

Clark felt it in his body, the frustration and anger and unease and sick sick jealousy. He felt it behind his eyelids, red and harsh and just as dangerous as his laser vision. He felt it under his tongue, making him sound mean and passive-aggressive to those he loved the most. He felt it in his chest, hard and heavy and growing like weeds.

How _dare_ Bruce treat him like this?

It was four weeks to the day from the last time he had seen Bruce in person (pressed against his back, murmuring filth into his ear). Clark banged his fist against the door of Bruce’s home, ignoring the doorbell for the satisfaction of hearing the integrity of the door creak under the pressure.

He could hear one heartbeat in the house. A heartbeat Clark was too familiar with, too focused on.

‘I know you’re there, Bruce.’ Clark addressed the security camera hidden in the doorframe. ‘I’m not leaving until you open this door. I’m not going to get tired of banging on this door, you know that.’

Clark heard the _click_ of the lock cylinder. He tried the door.

The house was dark, and Clark followed the heartbeat. Bruce was in his office. He was leaning against a desk, arms crossed over his chest. He looked _good_ ; god, he always looked so good. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong arms riddled with scars. His collar was undone, exposing his throat and that soft spot between his collar bones, that skin that Clark had wanted to taste since the first time he had seen it. His hair looked untamed, softer than Clark was used to. Bruce raised an eyebrow, his face a careful mask of indifference.

‘We need to talk.’

‘I thought I told you we weren’t talking?’

Clark ground his teeth and balled his fists and counted to ten.

‘I don’t think that’s your decision.’

‘You didn’t complain before.’ 

‘When I thought it was happening _once_ , sure, I was fine with us not talking about it. I thought you thought it was a terrible mistake and you were embarrassed about it and that hurt but I could get it. But after the second time? The third?’ Clark tried to keep his voice calm, his tone level. ‘By then, and that’s not even considering all the things you _said_ , you owed me a conversation. I know you want to control the world, and I know you think that you can force your worldview on reality, but it doesn’t work like that. You can’t treat other people like that. You can’t decide something and expect everyone else to fall in line. You can’t treat me like that. Even if it was just to tell me that it was a mistake and you don’t really see me that way, you needed to _talk_ to me.’

‘So if I tell you it was a mistake and I don’t really see you that way, will you get out of my hair?’ Bruce took a step forward, towering over Clark.

‘Fuck you, Bruce.’ Clark spat. ‘If you really think you can treat me like this, then, really, _fuck_ you. You’re cruel and you’re a bully and you treat people like property, like tools. You can’t do that.’ 

Bruce blinked, his forehead furrowed.

‘I’m not a bully.’

‘Bruce, I–’

Clark reached out and touched Bruce’s elbow. Something like pain flashed over Bruce’s face. Clark moved carefully, positioning Bruce so Clark faced his back. Clark put his hands on Bruce’s waist and rested his face on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce tensed but stayed frozen in place.

‘I know you don’t mean to do it, Bruce.’ Clark murmured into Bruce’s shirt. It smelled of cologne and engine grease and Bruce. ‘Batman is a bully. You think you need to scare people straight, mess them up so bad that they’ll think twice, thrice, before they consider doing bad again. And I get it, I get why you think you need to do that.’ Clark didn’t say that he doesn’t understand why Bruce had to be _quite_ that cruel, why broken bones were necessary, why branding was. ‘But there’s a time and a place. And sometimes you do it indiscriminately. You’re not just the big bad Bat hunting the ghouls of Gotham. Sometimes you’re cruel to, sometimes you’re cruel to people who– people who love you.’

Clark’s tongue got caught on the word, and he swallowed, waiting for Bruce’s inevitable cruelty.

‘You love me?’ The question, carefully neutral.

‘A little bit, yeah.’ Clark grinned into Bruce’s shoulder, hoping he couldn’t feel how his cheeks were reddening.

‘That’s very stupid of you.’ Bruce sounded kind, not cruel. Tired, but kind.

‘But it’s my choice.’ Clark moved his hands, wrapping his arms around Bruce, right hand folded over his left.

‘Is falling in love a choice?’

Bruce half-turned his head and Clark lifted his head, resting his nose on his shoulder blade and meeting his backward gaze, eyes dark, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

‘I don’t know,’ Clark answered honestly, ‘but I care about you, and I want you to let me to. Do you care about me?’

Clark could hear Bruce breathe, _feel_ him breathe. Under his hands, Bruce’s chest rose and fell, slow and steady. Clark could hear Bruce’s heart, beating fast. Clark felt the brush of fingers over the back of his hand. Bruce’s hand was soft and cool over his.

‘It’d be easier if I didn’t, Clark. It’d be easier if neither of us did.’ Bruce spoke softly, looking into the distance. Clark propped his chin on Bruce’s shoulder, feet levitating off the ground to make it comfortable. ‘How is this supposed to end well? One of us will die or I’ll break your heart.’ 

‘You don’t think I could break your heart?’ Clark smirked and tipped his forehead against Bruce’s neck, short hairs tickling the tip of his nose. ‘I wouldn’t want to. And I– it’s not about endings, Bruce. Sometimes things begin and we let them begin, we let them continue. We let ourselves see where they end up, and we let ourselves hope that it’s a happy ending.’

‘We’d never have a happily ever after, Kal.’ Clark’s Kryptonian name sounded beautiful and special in Bruce’s voice, and Clark wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it forever.

‘Maybe not. But does that mean we shouldn’t try?’

Bruce tipped his head back and rested his forehead against Clark’s. He closed his eyes. Clark counted his eyelashes and studied his cheekbones and admired his mouth and waited for him to speak.

‘What do you want from me, Clark?’

Clark tightened his grip on Bruce, pulling him closer.

‘I want…’ he started, searching for the words. ‘I want you to let me be close. Let me care for you. I want to see you first thing in the morning, bedhead and stubble and squinting at the morning light. I want to see you with your clothes off. I want to take your clothes off. I want to be able to tell you when I think you’re wrong without you getting mad, without you being selfish. I want you to be with me and not lie if someone asks.’ Clark paused for a second. ‘Not press, but – Alfred. Maybe Diana.’

‘And who would you want to tell?’ 

‘My ma. Maybe Lois. But – you come first. And if we tell no one, that could, that could be okay too. I want you to tell me the truth and I don’t want you to be cruel to me. I want you to let me take care of you. And I – I want you to fuck me. I want you to use me, but as a game. I want you to tell me what you want and give it to you. I want to submit to you. But I also want, I want–’ Clark bowed his head and frowned against Bruce’s cheek. He was more afraid to say the words he wanted to say than he had been to acknowledge his feelings for Bruce. ‘I want to make love to you.’

Clark hadn’t expected Bruce to laugh.

‘I don’t think I’d deserve that.’

That was it. Clark spun Bruce around and caught him in a half-embrace, his hands on Bruce’s hips again. Bruce’s hands found Clark’s upper arms, content to stay there. Clark was taller than Bruce like this, levitating a few inches above the floor. Clark looked at him. His beautiful tired face, his glorious questioning eyes. Clark ran his thumb over Bruce’s lip, and he leaned into the touch, eyes drifting close.

‘It’s not about deserving, Bruce.’ 

Bruce rested his cheek against Clark’s cupped hand.

‘I’m no good to be around.’

‘Believe it or not, I like being around you.’ Clark felt Bruce’s cheek twist into a smile. ‘I just want you to try. Try to be with me.’

Bruce opened his eyes and straightened his neck, frowning when he realised he had to look _up_ at Clark. He glanced down at the ground and a sudden surprised grin spread across his face. He was half-smiling when he looked up at Clark again, his hands wrapped around his neck.

‘Let’s try,’ he agreed.


End file.
